“Tell him his father died at war.” I nod. Trombello’s body sways as his knees lock, and the breeze tosses my hair into my face. I don’t panic at his withdrawn demeanor and far-off look. I know it’s not an easy question, and I don’t expect a simple reply. At long last, he says, “One day, when your child learns of God, tell him this in addition and nothing else—his father is buried on consecrated ground, with last rites, and God will open the gates of paradise to him if he is found worthy.”
I imagine my child sitting on my knee, wanting to know stories of his papà. I’ll tell him of a man who didn’t exist, not really, not in any way I’d want my little one to know of. My child will worship a fable. I touch the scar at my neck where Tom cut me with the knife that killed him moments later. I grew up knowing who and what my mother was. Her darkest moments were also mine. If I can protect my child from such a harsh understanding, I will.
And I’ll be the mother mine was unable to be because of the way her mind worked, and the way life failed her. I’ll care for my child and carry the heavy burdens of life so he doesn’t have to, no matter what sacrifices are required.
Finding the first modicum of peace I’ve felt since that fateful night, I follow Trombello’s gaze, grateful. He lingers on the cross at the apex of the chapel’s vaulted entrance like he’s witnessing the holy sacrifice of Christ himself. An unsettled nausea gathers in my belly that goes beyond morning sickness. This is a holy place now. But it’s been consecrated ground since Archbishop Cicognani dedicated the altar last June. Consecrated ground. The phrase chills me. The foundation to the chapel was poured immediately following the night of the dance.
Consecrated ground.
I shake off the potential realization. I don’t want to know.
If Tom rests under that chapel, and Trombello spared his soul in those final moments of his life by administering last rites, that’s something Trombello can carry. For now, I’m carrying enough, including Tom’s innocent child.
“I wish things were different,” I say quietly as Cresci and Gravano wave and make their way to us across the field.
“As do I, figlia mia. As do I.”
I’ve seen an ally turn from a stranger into a dance partner, into a lover, into a husband, and finally into an enemy. And I’ve seen my enemy turn from an adversary into a colleague, then a friend, a rescuer, and finally my only true ally.
I’ve been many things in my life as well, and soon enough I’ll become a mother. I don’t know if I believe Tom will be waiting inside the gates of heaven when I make it there one day. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed inside either. But I do know that my child doesn’t deserve to inherit the sins of his or her father or mother. And I will do my best to protect her and provide for her. Whatever it takes.
CHAPTER 35
Elise
Two Years Later
RROCK Headquarters—Refugee Resettlement Organization and Community Kitchen
The boardroom table seats twelve, but right now it’s just me, my chief operations officer, senior vice president, and general counsel sitting across from a bright-eyed Harvard grad in a tailored skirt and jacket. Her résumé is impressive—master’s degree in public health and social work and an undergrad degree in linguistics. I can already tell her vibe will fit in perfectly with our team.
“I interned at the UNICEF headquarters. It’s a great organization, but I wanted to go somewhere more grassroots. My roommate told me about an opportunity with the Peace Corps in Togo working in public health, so I applied.”
“Africa?” I ask, impressed. This young woman has her head on straight. She’s the kind of employee I’ve been looking for since opening RROCK a little over a year ago.
“Yes. Africa. Togo is a beautiful country, and I spent two years there. But when I left, I felt like there was more I could do to help, and that’s when I heard about RROCK. You’re new—totally ground floor in the nonprofit world. But that’s what I’m into—building something new. Like, literally and figuratively. In Togo, we had to rebuild our house and help our neighbors and friends do the same when a brush fire came through and turned the town into dust. That’s just one town. I’m totally passionate . . .”
I take notes as she shares her experience. Ciara and Oscar ask her some additional questions. In all actuality, this applicant has more real-world experience than I do even as president of the Refugee Resettlement Organization and Community Kitchen. But I rely on individuals far more educated and experienced than myself. I provide expertise from running Toffee Co. and a good amount of funding from my sale of the company and the residuals from the documentary.
“Thank you for your time, Monique. We’ll be reaching out before the end of the week with our final decision,” Ciara says, bringing the interview to a close. We take turns shaking hands and exchanging niceties as we walk her to the door.
“Oh, Ms. Branson, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’m a huge fan,” Monique says as she’s about to leave. Her professional mask slips and reveals a much younger side that the old PR Elise would label “in touch with the eighteen-to-twenty-four demographic.” A little young to be a fan of my grandmother, or even my father or mother, so I assume she must be referring to one of my siblings.
“Thanks, Monique. I’ll pass it on,” I say, without asking for specification. Now that I’m out of the entertainment industry and fewer people know of my background, these kinds of comments bother me less. I never actually “pass it on” like I promise, but I don’t think that matters as much as receiving the compliment graciously, a familial proxy.
“Pass it on?” she asks, her manicured eyebrow raised.
“To my family. I’ll pass it on.”
“Oh no. I’m talking about you. I’m a fan of yours. I’ve seen Bombshell like ten times. It’s why I applied at RROCK. I didn’t know anything about Vivian Snow or even those POW camps. Then the part about the refugees and the big revelation at the end . . .”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it,” I say, hoping to bring the conversation to a natural end, surprised and a little destabilized by having the documentary brought up in my professional arena.
I’ve never seen the final cut of the four-part film. I asked Marla, my former VP, to watch it for me, and she gave me a CliffsNotes version, but I can’t go back to that six-week period of my life that gutted me so entirely that I had to start over from scratch.
But I know enough from Marla’s twenty-page summary to understand the narrative. The story wasn’t about my wedding because it never happened. Mac cut the majority of the wedding prep and Pre-Cana with Hunter but kept the scenes with me and Patrick and used the friendship as a framing device for the first few episodes. He then used the paparazzi pictures and ensuing breakup as an effective cliff-hanger at the end of the third episode leading up to the results of the DNA test. That was the last scene I appeared in, a month after leaving Edinburgh. I was eager to know the results, and the only way I’d find out ahead of the rest of the viewing public was if I let Mac film the big reveal.